


Creep.

by internationalbitchboy



Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Crimes & Criminals, Feelings, Guilt, Guitars, Inspired by Music, M/M, Melancholy, No Beta, No Fandom - Freeform, Nosebleed, OCs - Freeform, Original Character(s), Song: Creep (Radiohead), They're tired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:06:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28789191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/internationalbitchboy/pseuds/internationalbitchboy
Summary: Jorel has a few talents, strumming a few chords together is one of them. Maybe it's the prodigious amount of guilt he's been experiencing as of late, but he felt the need to take some time to lay and ponder through his mind. His voice is raspy, gray...monotoned. Cherry-tinted sclerae did not hold him back from spotting the pink-haired mess outside of his door. Why was it so complicated...
Relationships: Akira Tsuki, Jorel Ragan
Kudos: 1





	Creep.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work containing my two original characters, Akira and Jorel.  
> To note, Akira is still legally underage, therefore Jorel and him don't currently have a romantic nor sexual relationship, but it's strongly implied in the writings. Their relationship is incredibly unhealthy and I don't condone it. They're both flawed people with flawed characters. 
> 
> TW for blood

When you are to do a certain action multiple times, no matter how painful it is, your body will always find a way to get accustomed to it. Pushing down on steel strings was uniquely one of those pains that were easier to get used to. Blisters lead to a casing of protection over your fingers, so now Jorel's digits don't hurt anymore. Physically, he doesn't hurt that much. He moves his hand up and down the neck of the wooden instrument, playing a tune familiar in his head. When he was young, he learned this song for the hell of it...now it's all shades of pink. Pink? Maybe he'd write it off as his own hair being in his eyes...if his strands weren't caught up in a messy do. Pink, why is it all pink? Why were the words making sense years down the line, when they shouldn't. It feels wrong, it makes him feel wrong.

The rasp from his voice started off with a moan, trying to get the words to appear in his head, waiting for his mouth to catch up. His senses were flooded and he feels the numbness on his hands, yet he plays. There's a figure shaping, just as he opens his mouth.

"When you were here before, couldn't look ya in the eye..." Words linger around with him. A pounding in his chest propels him to move on.

"You're just like an angel..." A freckled complexion comes to mind, fair yet stained...what a descriptor. "Your skin makes me cry." The bleak air from around his room wafted throughout his skin. The cold wood of the guitar pressed against his bare skin. Eyelids pressed firmly together, imprisoned in a pained look.

"You float like a feather-" There's shuffling from outside his room, yet he strummed on, with the thought that there's only one person it could be. "In a beautiful world." Behind his sluggish chords he hears the drop of weight right outside his bedroom door. It worried him, just for a second. Was he really needed? 

"I wish I was special...you're so fuckin' special." He pauses for just a moment. Picking up his half-burned cigarette to pull from, pull as much as his damaged lungs can intake. He won't need them for long anyway, they'll betray him soon enough. A traitor within his very own, if it weren't for his mind. There's silence in the room for just a few moments. Maybe he uses this time to distinguish what exactly is moving outside. 

Nevertheless, the show must go on. "But I'm a creep." The tail ends of his mouth perk up. "I'm a weirdo. What the hell am I doin' here?" He feels washed out, pale. He feels empty, but so filled. Fulfilling the itch in his fingers with harder strums, with painful scratching. "I don't belong here..." Where did everything take a turn? When did the same cigarette ravaging his lungs began to symbolize what was left of him. Half burnt out and virulent? Is this what God planned out for him? So why did his mother sing him white lies of his greatness? Is this the greatness set in stone for his name? Why can't he come to terms with it, to not care anymore? Why can't he trick himself into it like he does with everyone?

Why does it ignite wrath inside his body? Unstoppable flames meant to burn everyone who he wronged...yeah. "I don't care if it hurts-" A tinge of green peaks out from behind his heavy eyelids. Maybe he isn't too good for curiosity after all. "I wanna have control." He positions his body further up the bed. The guitar forming along to sit neatly against his exposed chest. "I want a perfect body." One that won't give up on him anytime soon preferably. "I want a perfect soul..." This one is a harder request, unfortunately.

You can't unsin a sinner, you can remove the tint from the water but it will never be clean. Forever tainted in whatever chemicals color carries. How can God forgive such a foul soul? How can he step over to let him see the clear skies? Would anyone, not just God, see what lead him here? To excuse his wrongdoings, to tell him he's not vile, that his soul is not as ugly as he believes it to be? What a miracle that would be...

"I want you to notice, when I'm not around." Yet again why would he ask forgiveness from the same being that made him so insignificant and small? He's never been good enough, has he? A miniscule spec of dust that will never matter. So fucking infinitesimal that no one will remember his name. "So fuckin' special...I wish I was special.." 

His world crashes on top of him, but there's a spark left...there's always something keeping him on the ground, it just so happens the same spark is just outside, lingering the outskirts of his safe haven. "But I'm a creep," The chorus line rings harsher now. "I'm a weirdo." Louder, painful words bounce off the walls of his room. "What the hell am I doin' here? I don't belong here." His volume puts a strain on his voice, but he doesn't quiet down. 

"Oh, oh.." With his anguish on display, he proudly sings along, the pitch of his voice rising. "She's running out the door, she's running out...run, run, run!" He desperately intakes air, let's his lungs work for a brief second, then let's out a final moan-like, raspy "Run..." With it, he quiets down. His fingers feeling like putty, numb and torn. The concern picking at a corner of his mind makes itself prominent again, this time wailing, moaning and crying. Demanding to be acted upon...so he does. 

"Akira. I know you're there." The vast difference of his singing and speaking approach set the tone for this interaction. "What do you need?" His ears pick up on movement again, assuming his house guest was getting back to his feet. 

"I-I...I'm sorry I didn't wanna interrupt-" His accent was heavy-set, but it was muffled by something else, something that set off sirens in Jorel's thoughts. When Akira stepped inside his room a line of red made it's path down. "I had a bad dream...and heard you sing-"

"You're bleeding." Why Jorel insists on masking every emotion with a layer of monotone and boredom is a mystery to us all, yet it's easy to pick up the concern and consternation. As they say, actions speak louder than words...and Jorel rapidly making his way towards Akira spoke loudly enough. Apprehensiveness was written directly onto Akira as Jorel approaches, so Jorel stops. There's no need to panic, panicking isn't going to help. Jorel promised to be gentle...because Akira is fragile. Like snow...like a feather. 

"I...I'm sorr-" 

"No need to apologize. Come on, let's get you cleaned up, okay?" His manner of handling and deescalating these situations was thoroughly thought out. He can't scare away Akira, no. That simply wouldn't do. He wants...needs his trust. So he's gentle with his touch, gentle with his movements, gentle as he dampens a cloth and gentle when he begins wiping down the residue of gore. Thinking through the various reasons as to why the sudden burst of blood vessels was causing him distress. Was Akira's body giving up on him, too? Can he do anything to aid this? Why can't he make everything better already. 

"You're not upset I heard?" 

"Why would I be?" Was Akira upset that he heard? Did he feel invasive? If this was invasive, Jorel feels a different stigma build up inside his mind. He really was a creep..

"I don't know. It sounded like...the words were personal." He adds this layer of skepticism to ease the drop onto Jorel, Akira is a good judge of character, he's not stupid, in any sense. Not being able to express his thoughts is never a setback. 

"They were. It's a personal song." So he admits it. It's been established their bond will not be built on lies. It's a setback for both of them. Jorel has built up his confidence of a leader based on lying to himself, never opening up, but it's antithetic with Akira. It wages a battle of dishonesty and honesty. A need to never hide, but hide enough. He doesn't want to open up, with the lingering fear of losing the spark he's growing accustomed to, just as his fingers to the steel strings. What a segue. "Are you still bleeding?"

"No." Akira motions this with shaking his head. A claret tinting his fair hue, yet he's still angelic, nothing can taint him, or make him a sinner inside those green eyes...nothing. "Will you sing for me?" Especially the faint periwinkle washing out inside the opposing side. A shade of blue you can't deny.

"Sure, if it'll help you sleep." Jorel passes the advancement off with nonchalance. Straightening his back, and abruptly leaving the room for Akira to follow. Within his hands another clean cloth, just in case. He suddenly feels bare and exhibited, the cold finally catching up to him, yet he doesn't put on a top. He allows Akira to get inside the bed first. It's not strange anymore, it doesn't feel foreign, but it does feel wrong. Akira can't sleep that well anymore, dreams and nightmares...always disturbing his slumber, so Jorel opens his room to him, he lets him stay, and Jorel loses sleep, because he feels so foul, so repulsed by himself. A nauseating aura clawing on the insides of his stomach. But at least Akira can rest.

He takes his guitar in his hand, he can comprehend Akira's gaze yet he can't understand why. He sits down on the edge of the bed. Feeling the tension from beside him, he can see Akira physically contemplate his next actions. But he's comfortable now, so he scoots down the bed and lays his head down on Jorel's thigh, a tad bit lower than where the guitar is. 

"It isn't too loud down there?" Jorel inquires, just in case. Of course, the ring of an acoustic guitar directly above your head isn't everyone's cup of tea, but Akira shrugs, indicating he's fine. Nevertheless Jorel mentally notes to strum a little less severely. 

And so he does, tests out a few chord progressions and then starts up where he left off the song, the last few lines. A finger tugs on a string and it produces a sound, his vocal chords shake and produce a groan, an intake of air and he begins.

"Whatever makes you happy.." He's being more benevolent towards his vocal chords straining this time around, taking in a softer approach to his humming. "Whatever you want." His green eyes yet again hide behind his eyelids, chin pointing towards the sky, ever so slightly, just enough for his head to rest. "You're so fucking special...I wish I was special." Muscles loosen up, he let's go of whatever tension he kept a hold onto.

"But I'm a creep...  
I'm a weirdo." His breath evens out, just as his thoughts clear up enough for him to be clear. "What the hell am I doin' here?" A thick aura of melancholy danced around his words, his chords. "I don't belong here..." Maybe rest will come easy tonight.

"I don't belong here..." Just for the night.

**Author's Note:**

> I listened to creep by radiohead an exact amount of 43 times while writing this, talk about torture :|


End file.
